 |
|||||||
|
|||||||
| DONALD RAWLEY | ||
|
|
||
| White Water This is my thousandth prayer, my song of dualities. This is how I regret, anointed with the irrevocable, my heart not touched but whispered upon until its skin is breath dampened, open as a baby's eyes to the light of dreams. This summer my dreams come heavy and I wake with creased skin; I see open pores and powder, the purest prison morning light that keeps me alive, the white gray before morning sun. It is the glow of lovers who left, forgetting I never smelled like thyme, only of a perfume they didn't like, a bed they couldn't sleep on. It is the aegis and battery I leave in elevators, in hotel lobbies with dried palms and revolving doors and I told them, make me your hotel, I'm your top floor suite, my numbers are magic and my doors stay unlocked. Trust me. I am your wife, your secret lover, the child you'll never have. My psalms are sweet. I am praying for you to come back. I am cupping my hands for white water that stayed in the pipes too long.
|
||
| Duende © 1994, Black Tie Press. All rights reserved. | ||
 |
||
|
Special Tribute Poetry Blind StitchSteaming Chateau Marmont Los Angeles Three AM Mulholland Drive Helen in Waiting Jonathan's End American Beauty
|
||
